


retribution

by insane_falcon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Assassination, M/M, Minor Character Death, Pre-Relationship, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-12
Updated: 2014-05-12
Packaged: 2018-01-24 11:11:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1603064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insane_falcon/pseuds/insane_falcon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was going to destroy everything of Moriarty’s, no matter how long it took, no matter what it cost him, no matter who he had to hurt along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	retribution

**Author's Note:**

> warnings: uh... swearing, deaths
> 
> Mormor is something of a new addiction, but I absolutely love it. I kind of imagine Michael Fassbender as Sebastian Moran, so he was the image in mind when I wrote this.
> 
> No beta reader and I'm not British so if there's anything that should be more British, please let me know.

A gunshot split the London night, and his sister collapsed onto the ground.

A split second rush of denial, disbelief, “No…”, then he was racing towards her, faster that he’d ever run before. He knelt down next to her and pulled her to him, frantically trying to stop the bleeding.

“Hey, tiger,” she whispered and lifted her trembling hand up to stop his futile efforts.

He shook his head fiercely. “No, Jemma. I’m not giving up. You’re going to live!”

She smiled, but it instantly turned into a grimace, and she coughed, blood staining her teeth. “I’m sorry. So sorry, tiger.”

“Who did this to you?” he demanded. “Tell me!”

“No-“ she broke off coughing, coughing up more blood. He knew that she was going to die soon.

“Tell me,” he whispered brokenly. “Please.”

His sister reached up and slowly, gently touched his cheek. Their identical blue eyes met, his filled with anguish and rage, hers filled with love and agony.

“Tell me.” One last plea.

“Moriarty.” Her hand dropped, her chest stilled, her eyes dulled.

Distantly he heard sirens. But that didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except revenge.

Moriarty had destroyed the only person he cared about. His sister had been everything, a beacon of light in this fucked-up world, the one person who had seen past his bullshit and believed in him.

And now he was going to destroy everything of Moriarty’s, no matter how long it took, no matter what it cost him, no matter who he had to hurt along the way.

 

* * *

 

He stood a foot behind Mr. Gerriander on his left side. As employers went, Mr. Gerriander wasn’t that bad; he paid well and wasn’t a complete asshole.

It’s just… he wasn’t what he was looking for. He wasn’t Moriarty.

Seconds ticked by, and he shuffled, bored but still alert. Whoever Mr. Gerriander was waiting for was late and that never boded well in his book. It was also annoying. Finally a car appeared at the end of the alley, and five men exited the car and walked towards them. He felt his blood start to race, although he didn’t outwardly acknowledge his adrenaline rush. If this deal of Mr. Gerriander’s turned bad, he was in for a challenge. One that, of course, he would win; his reputation could not be tarnished by losing someone he was supposed to be protecting.

The man in charge- given the way the other four men flanked him- glanced at Mr. Gerriander, then began to study him. “I thought I told you to come alone.”

He studied right back.

“I apologize, Mr. Moriarty,” Mr. Gerriander said. His attention riveted on the man with renewed fervor, like ears of a dog went up when it heard a squirrel. _Moriarty!_ “But he’s my bodyguard. One can never be too safe.”

“No…” Moriarty dismissed his presence. “One can never.” They began to talk business, which he zoned out on. That didn’t matter. Moriarty was in front of him. His excitement soon faded. While Moriarty seemed like the criminal mastermind he was looking for, there was something lacking. The man was dressed up very fancy- Westwood suit, if his eyes recognized correctly- and his posture was like a man in control.

 _His eyes were wrong._ They lacked the power, the will, to have as large a syndicate as Moriarty did. This man, whoever he was, was not Moriarty, but a double.

Fucking _useless_. He was tempted just to let his observation pass. Obviously, Mr. Gerriander knew nothing about this deception, and he had nothing to gain by pointing out the deception. Yet… he found himself curious if the real Moriarty was around somewhere. He probably wasn’t the type to miss his own appointments.

Casually, he glanced up and around, his eyes searching the dark alley for any trace of Moriarty. A second later, he found a figure standing in the fire escape high above them.

“Unfortunately, Mr. Gerriander, it seems that our interests do not intersect at this time,” the fake’s voice drew his attention away from the figure. Trouble time.

“What- But- You- I thought-” Mr. Gerriander began to stumble over his words. _Strike first_ , he decided. He shoved Mr. Gerriander down and shot the fake between the eyes. Taking advantage of the resulting bewilderment, he grabbed Mr. Gerriander and took refuge behind a dumpster. Moments later, the dumpster was pelted with bullets.

He waited them out, then stood swiftly and shot two of their attackers in the head. The last two stopped in their reloading and shared a moment of surprise and horror, which is when he took advantage and eliminated them. Fucking amateurs. Change ammo at different times and don’t get distracted by casualties.

As he walked Mr. Gerriander out of the alley, he looked up on final time at the figure on the fire escape and saluted mockingly. He received a return salute.

 

* * *

 

A fortnight after the incident with Mr. Gerriander, his phone dinged. He grabbed it and checked his text. Unknown sender. Blocked message. Curious, he unlocked his phone and went into his messages. Still unknown sender, but the message was unblocked.

**Peter Harrison. 5k (2k before, 3k after).**

He instantly knew who the sender was, though he had no proof or evidence. Instinct.

7k. 3k before, 4k after.

He set the phone back down on the small table in front of his couch and rested his elbows on his knees, head on his hands while he waited for a reply. The ongoing football game was ignored in favor of Moriarty’s text. It had to be Moriarty. Five minutes later, the reply arrived.

After he deleted the messages, he locked his phone and relaxed back into the couch. Manchester United scored against Chelsea on the screen. He waited until the end of the match- Manchester won- before he grabbed his laptop and Googled “Peter Harrison”.

 

* * *

 

Over the course of the next five weeks, he received twenty more names. He executed each name quickly and efficiently, and his bank balance quickly increased. But he never saw Moriarty or had more contact with him. Moriarty ignored the texts he sent not related to his targets.

The twenty-second name gave him a split second’s pause.

**David Gerriander. 12k (5k before, 7k after).**

Was this a test? To see if he would hesitate to kill a man who had once employed him?

There was no hesitation.

Accept. 

He had no need to research this target, since he had become familiar with Mr. Gerriander’s habits while he had been a bodyguard for him. After dinner- he didn’t like working on an empty stomach- he set out for the Mr. Gerriander’s home.

Easily, he evaded his former employer’s security and slipped into the master bedroom where the he slept. He shot Mr. Gerriander once through the forehead, the silencer on his gun masking the sound of his death. As easily as he entered, he exited and headed to his car which he had parked three blocked away. Better safe than sorry.

Except his car was not there. In its place was a sleek black car with tinted windows. He approached the car and a man stepped out from the driver seat and opened the back door for him.

“Please get in.” Not a request, despite the please. He bristled for a moment at the command, but this would lead to Moriarty. He could feel it.

He bared his teeth at the driver, who flinched back, and slid into the car.

 

* * *

 

_The bed dipped, and Jemma began to hum a soothing melody. She waited for him to make the next move, only reassured him of her presence. He hid under the covers, sobs continuing to wrack his body after his latest disagreement with their father. After he stopped his pathetic crying, he crawled out from underneath his blankets and held out his hand for his sister. She took it and laid down facing him._

_“I hate him,” he muttered. “He doesn’t understand. I don’t want to take over the company. You’d be better.”_

_Jemma kept humming._

_“I won’t be what he wants me to be, can’t be,” he added._

_She let him ponder for a couple more minutes before she ended her song._

_“I’m sorry he hits you,” she whispered. “I’m sorry I can’t stop him.”_

_“It’s enough you’re here,” he replies. “You’re always here.”_

_“I will always be here for you, tiger,” she assured him, and together they fell asleep._

 

* * *

 

He opened his eyes, ignoring the harsh glare from LED lights, and looked up from the dirty concrete floor to grey leather shoes (Gucci), up a dark blue suit (Westwood, with a skull tie), and into dark brown eyes. These were the eyes he had been looking for with Mr. Gerriander. He could see the intelligence, the madness lurking inside and wondered how anybody could miss it.

These were the eyes of Moriarty, the man who had murdered his sister.

“Colonel Sebastian Moran, aged 29, expert sharpshooter, dishonorably discharged after thirteen years of service for falsifying his age on the application form.” Moriarty spoke, and he was riveted to the sound, the cadence, the- No.

Remember Jemma. Her memory rejuvenated his anger. It didn’t matter if Moriarty was interesting, if he was more capable than any other of the pathetic fools he had served with or worked for.

The handcuffs on his wrists dug into his skin as his rage tensed his arm.

Moriarty tilted his head at him curiously and then smiled a moment later, radiantly, psychotically. Terrifying and hypnotizing.

He forced himself to relax and hide his emotions. They wouldn’t help here.

If anything, Moriarty’s smile grew wider.

“It has occurred to me that your specific… talents would be much more useful to me outside of our little texting game,” Moriarty said. “Which is why, as a token of-” he giggled “- _sincerity,_ I’ve brought you a little gift. _Tiger._ ”

His eyes, which had been drifting around the warehouse, seeking some clue to his location, snapped back to Moriarty’s face with a fury that had his wrists straining against his restraints again.

“Don’t call me that,” he snarled, “you-”

Moriarty grabbed his throat, cutting off his vocal chords and air supply, and tsk-ed his tongue like he was a naughty child. “Don’t be rude, Sebastian. I’ve brought you a gift.” The grip Moriarty had on his neck loosened and fingers began to stroke lightly.

The rage began to clear from his senses, and he heard whimpers and shuffling behind him. He wanted to turn around, but Moriarty prevented him as he circled around and stood directly behind him. He hated losing sight of Moriarty, who was handsome, intricate, _enemy_.

“You can’t hide anything from me,” Moriarty whispered in his ear. His entire being focused on the man behind him and he suppressed a shiver, although from the way Moriarty huffed a little laugh, he hadn’t been very successful. “Your efforts were impressive enough.” Moriarty couldn’t be implying- “Jemma.” He tensed, but the criminal mastermind’s fingers kept stroking his throat, which was distracting and having a devastating effect on his ability to hold onto his anger about Jemma. Fifteen years hadn’t dulled his need for vengeance. One man, no matter how beyond words he was, was not going to. But Moriarty wasn’t finished.

“These two men behind us are the ones who killed your precious sister. I will unlock these handcuffs and you can destroy them however you so desire.”

“And in return?” he managed to ask, his voice somehow steady. His vengeance, within tangible reach, but everything had a cost.

“I own you. You do whatever I saw, whenever I say. All this devotion you have to your sister, you have to me. _I own you._ ”

There was no hesitation. He would kill the men who murdered his sister. “Deal.”

Silence, then a click as his handcuffs were unlocked, and a little jingle as they fell to the floor. Instantly, he was on his feet and his hand was locked around Moriarty’s throat. The smaller man gazed back at him calmly, with no hint of fear. He could strangle this man so easily and yet…

His eyes slid past his past target and to the two men wriggling on the floor, desperate to escape. Moriarty was interesting. He hadn’t personally ended his sister’s life, the other two men had. Besides, if things turned dull, he could always kill Moriarty later. He released Moriarty, ignoring the man’s irritating knowing smile, and focused his attention on his prey, his anger turning cold and methodical.

He had had fifteen years to conceive his vengeance and he had put his imagination to good use.

As he slowly became showered with more and more blood and the warehouse filled with painful screams and moans, the maniacal laughter of Jim Moriarty lingered in the background.

**Author's Note:**

> ...well? Comments are greatly appreciated.


End file.
